


It's called 'Stockholm Syndrome'

by Jack_Wilder



Series: Enemies to Friends? Could be Stockholm syndrome. [3]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Donald really wants to throttle Henry, Enemies to tentative friends? Let's wait and see., M/M, Ressler ends up in the hospital, Ressler is over Prescott's shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28419999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jack_Wilder/pseuds/Jack_Wilder
Summary: We are not friends.
Relationships: Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley & Donald Ressler, Henry Prescott | Mitchell Hatley/Donald Ressler
Series: Enemies to Friends? Could be Stockholm syndrome. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816426
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	It's called 'Stockholm Syndrome'

**Author's Note:**

> Winging it with the medical emergency and treatment for the sake of this fic.
> 
> If you see any errors, please to POLITELY point them out to me.
> 
> I DO NOT own any of the characters in the fic below. This is written purely for the enjoyment of the writer and the reader. No profit is being made from this or any of my other works.
> 
> ENJOY!!!

_"So, you're alive Agent Ressler."_

Prescott's voice had a dark edge to it, and Ressler, having finally found a position, where the incision on the lower right side of his abdomen did not hurt, simply rolled his eyes. He was not in the mood for Prescott's pissy attitude. 

"Hello to you too, I got your voicemail." Ressler injected false cheer in his voice. "I could hear nothing but love and concern in it.”

The line was silent, and he took sick glee in imagining the pissed off look on Henry Prescott's face. 

There was a deep intake of breath, and then, _"you stood me up, you son of a bitch."_

"Hey," Ressler was grinning, ear to ear, "no need to insult my mother. She was a good woman."

Prescott had had enough of Ressler's teasing, as the next words out of his mouth were filled with nothing but venom. 

_"I only have to much patience, Agent Ressler. You're my bitch."_ He couldn't see it, but Ressler's blue eyes turned cold. _"When I say 'jump', you jump until I tell you to stop. And when I say, 'you're taking me to dinner', it means have your ass ready, and do not stand me up."_

Ressler felt his anger rising with each word from Prescott's mouth.

_"Your life is mine, to do with as I please."_ He growled. _"I own you until the day you die -"_

"I had ruptured appendix, you asshole!" Ressler yelled, cutting off Prescott, and regretting it when his incision throbbed painfully. "I fucking collapsed at a crime scene." He said from between gritted teeth, breathing hard. "I am well aware that I missed dinner, but I was too busy trying not to die. My sincerest apologies, I will make sure it doesn't happen again."

He ended the call with a vicious swipe of his thumb across the screen, not allowing Prescott a chance to respond. Ressler turned off his phone and threw it on the bedside table, sinking down on the bed. He was physically tired from the emergency surgery he underwent, and when the anaesthesia had finally worn off, and once he was coherent, Ressler's first call was to Prescott. 

His goal had been to explain what had happened, but hearing that voicemail reminded him of just who he was dealing. Ressler could not allow himself to forget that, no matter how chummy Prescott was with him at times. 

Liz had already passed by to check on him, needing to return to the case the task force was working on when he collapsed. She had promised to send Tom to keep him company, something Ressler was hoping would _not_ happen. Having nothing else to do, and still feeling tired, Ressler fixed himself into a comfortable position on his back and drifted off to sleep.

Having been an FBI agent for over ten years, Ressler was awake, groggy, but awake when two knocks sounded on the door of his hospital room. Checking the clock on his bedside table, showed that he had been asleep for only forty-five minutes. The door opening drew his attention once more, and in walked in the last person he had ever expected see while recovering in the hospital.

"What the hell happened to your hair?" Was the first thing out of his mouth. "You literally had hair two days ago."  
  
Prescott gave him an unamused look. Due to an unfortunate mishap the day before, he had to shave his off his luscious brown hair, that he had taken great pride in, but he wasn't going to tell Ressler that.

"Decided it was time for a change."

Ressler stared at him, before shaking his head. "No, you look better with hair." He snorted with laughter. "Military cut hair is _definitely_ not for you."

"And to think, I took the time to pick out flowers I thought you'd like."

Too focused on the man's hair, Ressler had failed to notice the vase holding a bouquet of sunflowers in his hands.

"Sunflowers," Prescott said, placing the flowers down on the small table in the corner by the windows. "For your sunny personality." He flashed a smile in Ressler's direction. 

It was too much to hope that Prescott was just there to deliver the flowers and leave, as he pulled up one of the small armchairs beside Ressler’s bed, taking a seat and making himself comfortable.

"Why are you here?" Ressler didn't even attempt to hide the suspicion in his voice, much to Prescott's amusement. 

"I am hurt Agent Ressler," Prescott clutched at his heart, "that you think I wouldn't visit my friend while he's recuperating in the hospital."

"We are _not_ friends, Prescott."

"We could be."

Ressler gave him a flat look. "There's a term for that: _'Stockholm Syndrome'."_ He gave Prescott a toothy grin. "Or _'Lima Syndrome_ ' _,_ whichever you prefer."

Prescott tilted his head, "are you on drugs?"

Ressler laughed, wincing when his stitches pulled. "Right _now_ , no." His laughter tapered off. "Really, why are you here? Whatever it is that you want, it's going to have to wait.”

"You're laid up in a hospital bed." He pointed out as if Ressler was unaware of his current situation. "I am not a monster, Donnie." 

Ressler's face darkened with annoyance. "It's 'Ressler', and I am sure many of your ‘clients’ would argue against that." He turned his head, looking up at the ceiling, and the harsh florescent lights. "Did you hear yourself in that voicemail you left me?" 

"About tha-"

Ressler cut him off, not caring about what he had to say. "I was in surgery, and the moment I am out and lucid, I call you to explain the reason for missing dinner, and you go off on me, reminding me that I am your 'bitch'," he spat the word as if it tasted foul in his mouth. " _'Friends'_ , do not treat each other like that." He was winded after that mini rant, and Prescott noticed.

"Would you like some water?"

Ressler nodded, and Prescott got him some water to drink.

"I am here to apologise for the voicemail I left you, in a moment of anger."

"Just for that?" Ressler settled against his pillows, his eyes firmly on the ceiling once more.

Prescott spread his hands, looking confused, and Ressler rolled his eyes, feeling even more tired that had nothing to do with recuperating.

"You need to apologise for slapping me, and for the many other transgressions made against me."

"Well, you got me back really good with your gun." Ressler could hear the smirk in Prescott's voice. "You have quick reflexes."

Aside from the dull pain in his side, Ressler felt an oncoming headache, that he knew was from being in the man's presence; the same happened with Reddington. 

"My finger was on the trigger." He glanced at Prescott, before turning his attention to back the ceiling. "I was _ready_ to pull that trigger and end you right there."

"And that would have created even more problems for you."

"I know."

The room was quiet. Ressler could feel Prescott's eyes on him, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to block out everything. It didn’t work.

"Seriously, _why_ are you here, Prescott?" His eyes remained closed as he spoke. "What are you trying to achieve? One minute you're acting friendly, inviting me to the movies and batting cages, and the next you're reminding me of my place in this 'relationship', threatening my life and freedom." Fuck, he was tired, his side was starting to hurt again, but he wanted nothing stronger than Panadol. 

Ressler opened his eyes, "Your constant change in behaviour makes me dizzy, and irritated." Turning his head, he pinned Prescott with his blue eyes. "What do you _want_?"

Prescott regarded him silently, to the point that Ressler accepted that an answer was not going to be forthcoming when he spoke.

"I am here because you were hurt, and I wanted to make sure that you were ok."

"Bullshit." Ressler released a humourless laugh, dragging a hand down his face. "You know what, I am tired, in pain, and I can't get an honest answer out of you. Leave." He gave a sharp nod towards to the door.

Prescott opened his mouth, about to say heaven knows what, when the door opened, capturing both their attention and Ressler felt his blood pressure skyrocket as Tom Keen walked in.

"Why are _you_ here?" He didn't whine, but it sounded close to it. Ressler knew it was karma, for all the shit he did, why he was currently being tortured by the last two people he ever wanted to be in the presence of.

Tom calmly looked from Ressler, to Prescott who was eyeing him as well, back to Ressler, before answering. 

"Liz asked me to come keep you company." His sharp blue eyes slid back to Prescott. "But I can see you already have company. 'Tom Keen'." He stepped forward and held out his hand towards Prescott, who stood and shook it.

"Henry Prescott."

Bless his years in the FBI, as Ressler knew the exact moment, he was damned, by the slight raising of Tom's eyebrows; a small smirk formed on his lips, and Ressler wanted to shoot both men.

"Henry Prescott, the professional _Saboteur._ That _'Henry Prescot'_." 

Prescott gave a tight smile, "I prefer the term 'fixer'."

Tom snorted, his blue eyes were back on Ressler, who in turn was staring at Prescott with an unreadable expression. Tom looked like he was trying to figure out a very interesting puzzle.

"How'd you two meet?" The question was directed at Ressler, but it was Prescott who answered. 

"Donnie and I were introduced by a mutual friend."

"Jesus Christ." Ressler cursed under his breath.

He disliked Tom but had grudging respect for the man when it came to finding out things. He was like a dog with a bone. But now, that tenacity was going to work against him.

"' _Donnie'_?" Tom's smile was bigger now, an unnerving glint shining in his eyes. "I am hurt, _Agent Ressler,_ you have known me for over seven years, you are friends and partners with my wife, but yet, _we_ are not friends."

If looks could kill, both Tom and Prescott would have been dead on the spot.

"But that aside, I am more interested about what kind of friends the two of you," he looked between Ressler and Prescott, "a saboteur, sorry", Tom looked anything but sorry, "a _fixer_ and an _FBI_ agent could have in common."

Ressler's jaw was clenched so hard, he would not have been surprised if his teeth broke. Prescott cool as ever sized up Tom and found nothing of interest. His dismissal of Tom and his question clear, when he turned to address Ressler.

"Do get better quickly, Donnie." He patted Ressler on his leg, ignoring the death glared directed at him, and with a nod to Tom, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

There was less than a minute of silence before Tom opened his mouth and Ressler cut him off. 

"No, whatever it is, I do not want to hear it."

Tom closed his mouth. 

"If you're going be here, keep quiet, I am going back to sleep."

"Sure, I will be right here." He took a seat in the chair vacated by Prescott. 

Tom was blessedly quiet for a few minutes; enough time that Ressler had made himself comfortable, and closed his eyes, slowly entering that state between being awake and asleep when he heard Tom's voice.

"Still, it is quite interesting that Mr. Boy-Scout-FBI-Agent-Ressler, would be friends with Henry Prescott."

Ressler cracked open an eye to look at Tom, who was looking back at him. 

"Probably because he reminds me of you." The dark look on Tom's face, at being compared to Prescott was interesting, and Ressler filed that away for later consideration. "You both have a way of speaking when all I want is silence. And you're both irritating." He flashed a grin at Tom, closing his eyes, and turning his head away.

He thought it was the end. 

He thought wrong.

"Are you in trouble?" The question was quiet, and filled with concern, and Ressler's eyes snapped open.

He turned to look at Tom. "What?"

"Henry Prescott," he motioned towards the closed door. "Are you in trouble? Is that why you were introduced to him?"

_Shit. Fucking-ass, shit, shit, SHIT!_

Tom continued speaking. "You do know that if you're in trouble, you can go to your co-workers, Cooper, Liz, hell, even _me_." He added grudgingly, "even Reddington. Sure, he will laugh at you, but he will help you."

Ressler hoped his inner thoughts were not displayed on his face right now. "I can't tell if you are actually being sincere right now, what with you being a master spy and all. But, no, I am not in trouble. A mutual friend really did introduce us, and we...clicked." 

He had a feeling, that Tom did not believe him in the slightest, but kept his gaze steady.

"Ok, sure, as long as you are fine."

It was disconcerting, Tom showing any concern for Ressler's wellbeing, but he kept his mouth shut, and went back to attempting to sleep. 

* * *

"Oh my- _why_ are you here again?" Ressler was beyond stressed, as he watched Prescott waltz into his hospital room the next day.

Prescott flashed him grin. "To keep you company of course."

Ressler rolled his eyes, "lucky me." 

"When are you being discharged?" Prescott retook his seat from the day before. 

"Tomorrow. Doctors want to keep me for one more night of observation, to make sure my body's not poisoning itself."

Prescott nodded, "do you have anyone to look after you once you are back home?"

Ressler eyed him warily. "Yes."

"Who?"

"What?

"Who is going to be looking after you?"

"My friend and his little sister. They live across the hall- _why_ the fuck am I telling you this?" Ressler was baffled at the ease at which he answered Prescott's questions. 

Prescott flashed him a smile, that Ressler violently wanted to wipe from his face. 

Ressler turned in the bed, to look at him properly. "Don't you have anything better to do?" He was genuinely curious and concerned. "None of your clients need anything fixed or sabotaged?"

The dark look he received in response said a lot about that word being associated with Prescott.

"It might not be a 9-5 job, but I am allowed a few hours personal time." Prescott, as calmly as ever pointed out. 

"Personal time." Ressler echoed.

"Yes, personal time that I am using to spend with my friend, who is currently laid up in the hospital."

Yeah, Ressler was going to wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze, consequences be damned. He had no clue what was going on in that twisted, manipulative mind of Prescott. But _this_ idea of them being _friends_ was enough to make Ressler laugh, which he did.

Prescott looked worried about his mental state. "What's so funny?"

Ressler wiped his eyes. "You." Another chuckle escaped him. "The idea that you think we're friends or would ever be."

"I don't see what is so funny about that."

Ressler levelled Prescott with a look of pure disbelief. "You keep throwing that word around, but do you actually have any idea what it means?"

" _Friend_ : noun; a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically one exclusive of sexual or family relations." Prescott shrugged. "Graduated top of my class from Yale Law School. I think I know the definition of 'friend'."

"Smartass" Ressler rolled his neck, settling back on his pillow, before shifting again. "I am so fucking tired of this bed." He grumbled. His stiches were starting to itch, and it seemed as if every small movement, even so much as breathing pulled at them. The only time he got up was to use the bathroom, walking took too much energy, often leaving him winded. 

"You ok?"

Ressler stopped shifting to spare Prescott a glance. "Yeah, just irritated."

When he wasn't forthcoming with further information, Prescott prompted him. "With?"

"This, you, everything." His head dropped back on the pillow. "I don't do well sitting in one place."

"I can see that." Prescott regarded him. "Want to go for a walk?"

Ressler snorted.

"That is an excellent idea." 

Both men looked to where the new voice was coming from. 

A male nurse, with his blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun, stood by the open door, a pleasant smile on his face. "How is my favourite patient doing?" 

Ressler grinned at the man. "Really? 'Favourite patient'? I am sure you say that to _all_ your patients, Nurse LeBeau"

Nurse LeBeau didn't reply, but he didn't have to say anything, the twinkle in his green eyes said it all. He nodded to Prescott, as he checked Ressler's vitals, writing down something in his chart, before flipping it closed and pinning Ressler with a small smile.

"Now, I wasn't eavesdropping, but your friend's suggestion-"

"He's not my friend."

"-was a great idea." Nurse LeBeau continued speaking, ignoring Ressler's comment. "You need to walk about, Agent Ressler." He kindly, but firmly instructed him. "Your friend can assist you."

Ressler turned a glare on Prescott, who looked smug. "He is not my friend."

  
"Well, he can still help you."

Ressler tried his best not to lean forward while walking around the hospital floor. It wasn't a large incision, but Ressler felt if he stood up too straight, the stitches were going to tear right open. It was an irrational fear, he knew it, but could not help feeling it. Prescott walked beside him, keeping his hands to himself, after Ressler had snapped at him, when he had initially attempted to assist him.

Since leaving the hospital room, both men were quiet, save for the shuffling of Ressler's footsteps. He was concentrating on keeping his posture right, that he missed the first time Prescott asked a question.

"Ressler." He felt the nudge on his arm, more than the call of his name. 

He glanced at Prescott, "hmm?"

"Why did you call me?" 

Ressler stopped in his tracks. Prescott did not elaborate, but there was no need to. He knew exactly what was being asked. _That_ is the million-dollar question he has been asking himself. He knew that if he had called Reddington, the man would have come to his aid. Sure, Reddington would have chastised Ressler, while making fun of him, but he would not have held it over his head. 

No.

Reddington is not that kind of man towards people he is...fond of.

Prescott on the other hand was the devil incarnate. 

"Why did you call me?" Prescott repeated the question, and Ressler stared straight ahead, even though Prescott was trying to catch his eyes. "Why didn't you call Reddington, or your team? Why me?"

"I want to go back to my room now."

Prescott sighed, saying nothing as Ressler turned around and promptly froze, looking at something down the hall. Prescott turned, only to see both Liz and Tom Keen approaching them. The look on Tom's face unnerving them both.

Ressler cursed under his breath. "Fuck me sideways." 

"Not while you're still healing." Prescott said without missing a beat, laughing when Ressler delivered a weak punch to his arm.

"Hi, Ressler." Liz greeted, a small, tired smile on her face. 

He returned it. "Hi, Liz."

Her eyes shifted to Prescott, and she stuck out her hand towards him. "Hi, Liz Keen, Ressler's partner."

Prescott gave her a winning smile and shook her hand. "Henry Prescott."

Ressler watched Liz and her intelligent eyes, sizing up Prescott, knowing something was off. His focus went to Tom who was looking at him over Liz's head, an eyebrow raised. 

"It's nice to meet you.” Liz's smile widened as she looked back at Ressler. “And it's nice seeing you up and about Ressler. I was going to leave Tom here to keep you company, because I have to get back to the Post Office." She quickly glanced at Prescott, before looking back at Ressler. "But I see that you already have someone here with you."

Ressler's smile was tight. 

"Well, I will leave you two. It was great meeting you, Henry." Prescott flashed her a quick smile. "Ressler, get better quickly. We all miss you at work." Liz started to turn, then remembered something. "Since you up, I will keep you updated with the case."

Ressler nodded his thanks, and watched as both Liz and Tom left, not saying anything until the couple had turned the corner and were out of sight. 

"He told her."

Prescott looked at him confused. "What?"

"Keen, he told Liz about you." Ressler elaborated. 

"You think so?"

This time Ressler looked at Prescott with a look of disbelief. "I _know_ so. Fucking hell, just what I needed." He continued shuffling back to his room, Prescott beside him. 

"Well, even if he did tell her about me, he can't prove _anything."_

" _You_ better ensure that there is _nothing_ for him to prove." Ressler levelled him with a threatening look, to which Prescott responded with a smile.

"Of course, I will make sure of it." 


End file.
